


Trust Test

by Fistotron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Sticky Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:59:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fistotron/pseuds/Fistotron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fulcrum gets involved in a team-building exercise with Misfire and Krok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Test

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: NC-17; sticky; blow job; threesome.  
> DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are owned by the author, simply written for amusement and the fact that the Scavengers don't receive nearly enough attention as they ought to.  
>  **This was originally posted under AlbaAulbath, which has been moved to this username instead. Same author, different name.**

Sure. Team-building exercise. That's kind of how Misfire put it anyway.

Really, Fulcrum has no idea how he's been convinced to do this, and it doesn't really matter in the long run because, hey, here he is, he's squirming between the other two Decepticons. With the patience of a hyperactive turbofox (that is to say _none_ ) Misfire is roaming his hands all over the front of the K-Classer, practically pawing at him and groping between his legs. There's a chiding grunt from over Fulcrum's shoulder from Krok, who is far more paced and precise, tweaking a wire between the seam of the dud bomb's waist; the action earns a squeak and a jerk, as much as Fulcrum tries to stay still on his commanding officer's lap.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon," Misfire mutters, grinding the heel of his palm against Fulcrum's panel. "You gonna open or what, Pinhead?"

"He's not going to until I say so," Krok informs him, tone not quite stern but certainly not losing its commanding edge. While the jet continues with his frantic touching, Krok drags his fingers lightly up the K-Classer's inner thigh. "Right?"

Fulcrum's spinal strut arches slightly and he tries to stifle a moan, only half-successful. " _Uh._ Right."

There's definitely a _whine_ from Misfire at being told to wait, in which Krok sighs and reaches over, giving him sort of an affectionate thump on the shoulder before returning his attention to the mech in his lap. The more steady touches from Krok up his abdomen are easy to pick out from Misfire's energetic tweaks and grabbing even if Fulcrum had his optics shuttered; he gives alarmed yelps when Misfire pinches his aft and sucks at his neck cables awhile he leans back and moans when Krok takes the time work his fingers under plating and working at transformation seams. Both brands of attention are _good_ and Fulcrum frankly feels very useless, but he's not about to complain at being the center point here.

At the knee, Fulcrum's leg is raised up by Misfire who's decided to take to tracing Fulcrum's panel with his tongue, lapping and sucking at the seams and practically giggling when the K-Classer gives a frustrated groan. Krok's hums at the ex-technician's audial, reaching up with a hand and pressing two fingers against Fulcrum's lips. "Open," Krok orders, somehow keeping his tone even and conveying authority without cruelty in just one word.

"Yeah," is all Fulcrum can bear to get out before he's taking two fingers into his mouth, rolling his tongue up against the plating. In the back of his mind, he's grateful; Krok probably figured that he needs to keep himself occupied somehow and it helps to have something keeping him muted for now.

Fingers continue to work around his body along with Misfire's mouth almost unbearably heated on his closed interface panel. Over his chest where his spark casing rests, hands glide over, down his waist, pinching at his hips, feeling along his legs-- all of it together is enough to make him worked up. Fulcrum sucks harder on the fingers in his mouth, trying to not make a sound.

He fails when he feels Krok begin to rock his hips up against his aft, exhaling hotly against the back of his neck. A sharp whimper is strangled through and Fulcrum quivers between the two larger Decepticons, nearly biting down on the fingers in his mouth. It's almost too much and he wants to just open his panel and let Misfire do _whatever_ , because he's getting charged up. He can feel the lubrication working up in his valve and his spike getting uncomfortably pressurized against his closed panel.

He tries instead to wait, wait until Krok gives the order.

" _Mm_ ," Misfire muses, nipping at the edge of his interface panel. "Hey, I can taste it... _yeah._ " With a laugh, he laps between Fulcrum's thighs. "You're leaking right out from your panel."

"That right?" Krok peers over Fulcrum's shoulder. "Hmm, not yet, Fulcrum. Just a bit more."

In return, Fulcrum gives a dismayed noise, his head falling back a bit against Krok. His commanding officer pulls fingers free from the K-Classer's mouth and the dud bomb groans, " _Krok_ , please. I-- _augh_ , Misfire!"

"Don't look at me, you taste _good_." Misfire gives a broad grin up at the former technician.

"Just a little longer," Krok assures. "Give me your hand."

Obediently, Fulcrum holds out his hand limply to him. Taking him by the wrist, his hand is pulled down between their bodies, angled kind of funny. Though he quickly gets why when he hears Krok's panel retract, his spike emerging, pressurized and ready. Krok gently curls Fulcrum's hand over the base and he shivers at how warm the plating is.

"Feel that," Krok orders, voice low and rough against the K-Class's audial. "That's right, keep touching me. Now I need you to tell me something. What do you want Misfire to do?"

"I...?" Fulcrum's yellow optics brighten for a moment in confusion, his body twitching at the way Misfire sucks at his inner thigh. He continues to feel along Krok's spike in the meanwhile, getting familiar with the thickness of it. " _Nngh_. I-I want... I want his mouth on me. My spike."

"You want him to suck you off?" Krok clarifies rather bluntly.

"Yes," Fulcrum moans, in which Misfire snickers between his legs. " _Shut up_ ," the ex-tech grumbles.

"You want him to swallow up your fluid when you overload?" Krok growls softly against Fulcrum's helm.

It can't be helped. There's an eager nod from Fulcrum; he jerks his hips when Misfire nips him again.

When Krok laughs, it's some kind of strange pleasant dry crackle against his helm. If everything else didn't already have an effect on him, Fulcrum would be finding a way to squirm more at that as a result. "Well, then here's the other step. _Hmm_ , perfect, keep stroking. Feel all of it. Do you want my spike in you, Fulcrum?" When the K-Class nods quickly, Krok rolls his hips into his hand. " _Good._ I want that, too. But you need to ask."

Slag, he wants Fulcrum to talk. With Misfire mouthing along his plating and trying to concentrate on moving his hand, he can't make a sentence without stammering. Though he supposes that's kind of the point.

" _Gh._ Krok, I really-- _really_ want you to put your spike in me. Sir, _please._ " Fulcrum swallows hard. "I want you both."

There's a strong rumble from deep within Krok's chest and Fulcrum can hear his engine rev up slightly. Apparently, that had been a good answer. Krok moves his hips forward again and mutters to the K-Class, "All right. Open your panel for us, Fulcrum."

With a relieved moan, Fulcrum finally exposes his panel. His spike pressurizes, so _very_ erect that it almost curves up between his thighs; his valve is already trickling lubricants. Forcing his legs to spread out, Misfire is holding Fulcrum's knees apart and peering down at the open interface array now with a broad, almost hungry look. Krok is reaching between the K-Class's legs, brushing his hand down the base of Fulcrum's spike -- which earns a small, strangled sound -- and is barely touching his valve. 

There's an amused snort. "You're practically dripping, Fulcrum." Krok circles the valve with an inspecting glance, earning little squeaks from the K-Classer. Eventually, with two fingers, he spreads out the outer lips of the valve, exposing it entirely. "You want a taste, Misfire?"

"Hey, I hardly got a good sample from the outside." Misfire licks his lower lip with a sharp grin. "Sir, yes sir, please sir."

"What about you, Fulcrum? Do you want Misfire to get to work?" Krok uses both of his hands to reach around, pinching the valve lips open.

The ex-technician quivers and bucks. " _Ngh!_ Yes, damn it...!"

"Get to work, Misfire."

At the command, the jet is leaning forward with definitely no sense of hesitation. With a grunt and a hum of approval, Misfire plunges his tongue into the waiting, wet valve. In return, Fulcrum cries out, wanting to roll his hips forward and just let Misfire do whatever the hell he wants, but between Misfire's grip and Krok's hands on his valve, he isn't going anywhere. So he's confined to leaning against Krok, his voice crumbling away into whimpers as Misfire tastes up inside of him, tongue working and lavishing the drenched entrance.

In the midst of Misfire's mouth working on him, Fulcrum dares to peer down at the jet when he feels a hand leave one of his knees. It's not hard to tell from this angle that Misfire is starting to work on self-servicing, moving his hand over his own spike. Eventually, Misfire pulls his head back and licks his lips. "Yep, you still taste pretty damned good, Pinhead," he comments before nuzzling back into the valve.

Oh slag, he could just overload like this and even that would be okay. Between the teasing and being forced to wait and now Misfire practically toying with the sensory nodes up inside of him, Fulcrum could deal with that. He trembles, vents hitching, ready to go.

"Misfire, back off," Krok orders.

Frag, you've got to be kidding him! Fulcrum gives a disappointed moan, writhing against his commanding officer when Misfire removes his mouth and tongue. "Krok," he grates out. "C'mon, please..."

"You can wait," Krok mutters to him. "Go ahead, Misfire. Finish yourself up."

"Don't mind if I do," the jet replies all too cheerfully, sitting back on his legs and jerking his hand over his own spike. "Hmm, I didn't want to stop, honest, Fulcrum."

It doesn't take many more strokes over himself until Misfire gives a pleased squeal, thrusting his hips forward and spilling onto the floor. He pauses, cycling air in his vents, and Fulcrum makes a frustrated growl, "That's really-- _Krok_ , that's unfair!"

"Hey, he has a better recovery time than both of us." Krok rests his chin on Fulcrum's shoulder. "He can stand to go a few times before he decides he's a bit worn out."

"Besides," Misfire huffs lowly, still letting himself pant and work himself back up again, "you're kind of cute, all worked up and ready to go off, Pinhead."

"I'm not-- _ah!_ " Fulcrum jerks his hips hard at Krok's hand ghosting over his spike. " _Please_ , don't just-- stop teasing me!"

"Where do you get off ordering me?" Krok replies, his tone clear that he's more entertained than he is offended. "You're going to ask for it. Ask for my spike, Fulcrum."

"Krok." Fulcrum squirms, shuddering. Eventually, he practically begs, "I want your spike, inside me. Please, just do it, just-- hngh! _Please, will you frag me?_ "

For a moment, the commanding officer does not respond. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, slowly, Krok is lifting up Fulcrum just enough so he can slide his spike between the K-Class Decepticon's legs. Fulcrum twitches at the feeling of the head of Krok's spike pressing up against his valve. Not going _in_ yet, just the tip resting there. In small circles, Krok patiently grinds against the outside of Fulcrum's valve.

"Well. Since you asked so nicely," Krok murmurs against him.

In one smooth motion, Fulcrum feels the mech behind him push inside finally; he legs jerk and he arches his back, opening his mouth in an approving, thankful shout as he's filled by the thick spike. There, Krok holds himself, just impaled deeply inside of the K-Classer, as if he needs to take in the moment of Fulcrum's valve stretched tightly over him. He tries his best to remain still, whimpering as he waits. Fulcrum glances at Misfire, who's started to jerk himself off again, giving an approving look as he watches.

Finally, Krok moves. His hips draw back slowly before he pushes back in, earning a struggled-sounding moan from Fulcrum. The pace starts off like everything else with the commanding officer: slow with purpose. It's powerful, but not rough. _Assertive._

"Ask Misfire to suck your spike," Krok orders the mech he's rocking into.

" _Ngh._ " Fulcrum shudders, twitching in Krok's arms. "M-Misfire-- would. Would you suck _hnnn_ my spike?"

At the request, Misfire grins broadly and scoots himself closer, leaning down to nip an inner thigh. His hand keeps moving as he continues to stroke himself, taking a moment to get a good glimpse of Krok's spike moving in and out of Fulcrum. "Don't mind if I do," the jet answers before he takes the K-Classer's length into his mouth.

Much like the two pairs of hands that were originally roaming his body, the pace between Misfire and Krok are still different: while the flier has no problem getting right to work, noisily slurping and bobbing his head down Fulcrum's spike, Krok is still taking his time, rocking in and out of Fulcrum with a consistent, controlled intention. The sheer difference makes it interesting, but it's also overwhelming. Between the hot, wet mouth on him and the thick spike sliding against his sensory nodes inside of his valve, Fulcrum can't help but remain vocal in his enjoyment.

Krok tightens his arms around the K-Class, thrusting up a bit more sharply, earning a squeal. "Tell me how much you like this."

"K-Krok," Fulcrum pleads, crying out again when Krok jerks into it. "I-it's! It's good, it's so good-- y-your spike is stretching me out and it's big and-- _ahh!_ I can tell you're holding back, please don't-- don't hold back, _oh._ "

"Keep talking," Krok growls, bucking harder into Fulcrum.

"Mm! L-like that, just like that...!" At every thrust, small squeaks are forced out of the K-Class. Misfire is working more intently, sucking down on him, tongue running up and down his spike. The suction is _good_ , better than anything else he's put his spike into. Krok's letting go finally, the power and control so obviously there. "Krok, I really-- I can't--"

Taking that as a warning, Krok adjusts his positioning so that he can more effectively pound into the smaller mech. As a result, Fulcrum is finding himself practically bouncing in his lap. Somehow, Misfire doesn't even gag, just going with the motion, easygoing and still sucking away, humming cheerfully. 

Another thrust, and Fulcrum lets out a final shout as he overloads at last. The spurts from his spike are swallowed down with nearly no effort from Misfire, whose tongue laps up any trailing bead of liquid. Fulcrum's valve spasms, tightening over Krok's length; the commanding officer hisses into his audial, slamming his hips one more time into the ex-technician and releasing deep inside of him. The lubricant is hot as it comes out, soaking Fulcrum from the inside.

He finds himself limp, just focusing on panting and trying to cool off his plating. There's a shiver that runs through his body as Krok pulls out, a squeak when Misfire kisses the tip of his de-pressurizing spike. 

"Good teamwork, I think," Misfire comments with a small laugh. "Maybe you'll last longer next time, Pinhead."


End file.
